State We're In (42 page)

‘No, I'm not in Vegas,' laughed Joanna. ‘I hadn't thought of that.'

Joanna not having thought of marriage within the first forty-eight hours of meeting a new man prompted Clara to ask, ‘Does he look like Quasimodo?'

‘No, he's really …' Clara could not see her daughter glancing at a photo of Dean that was pinned to his fridge. He was on a boat and had his arms round the necks of a couple of other guys, all beaming like crazies. The reason for their jubilation was apparent: one of the guys was holding up a fish the size of a sack of spuds. Clara had no way of knowing how Jo felt as she caressed Dean's cheek on the image. ‘He's really handsome.'

Clara thought the choice of adjective was suspicious. ‘Very old, then?'

‘No, in fact he's younger than me.'

‘Is he legal?' Shots of fear ricocheted through Clara's body.

‘Mum, he's just a year younger than me.'

‘Married?'

‘Mum! He's beautiful, legal, single. He's perfect, OK. Just perfect.'

Having spent three days at Eddie Taylor's bedside, Clara doubted the authenticity of a perfect man. Her mind whirled and she quickly rationalised that there were three other explanations as to why Joanna might not be hysterically gabbling on about wedding dresses. One, she might have decided this man was out of her league, and might be simply enjoying wild, hedonistic sex for a weekend. Two, he might be gay, hardly an explanation either woman could ignore right now. Or three, she might be reeling from the shock of her parents' split after all, and have been jolted completely out of character. None of these were comfortable lines of conversation to pursue, so Clara simply said, ‘Well, just perfect sounds wonderful.'

Joanna laughed. ‘It is.' Clara heard her take a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I can't imagine you've called to discuss
my
love life.'

‘Well, no, I haven't.' Clara hesitated. ‘I know Lisa has filled you in.'

‘Yes.' A silence descended down the phone line. Clara instantly missed the intimacy and camaraderie that she had been enjoying with her daughter just a moment ago. She longed to talk about the perfect man again, or Martin, or even the in-flight entertainment, but she knew she couldn't.

‘I'm so sorry, darling. I know this must be very hard on you.'

‘I don't imagine it's been easy for you either, has it?' Clara nearly choked on surprise and relief. Joanna's words were the first she'd heard that in any way acknowledged Clara's own relentless pain and sacrifice – sacrifice that had occurred over many years – and the enormous difficulty of making the choice to finally leave.

‘I thought you'd be very angry.'

‘More sad.'

‘I'm sad too,' Clara confessed. She breathed the words down the line, hardly daring to give them any volume; they were powerful enough as they were. She wondered if Joanna would actually be able to hear her as the traffic roared past.

It seemed that Joanna not only heard but understood. ‘Are you sure?'

‘That your father is gay? Quite sure.'

‘I more meant, are you sure you'll be happier alone?'

‘God, I don't know, Joanna,' Clara admitted frankly. ‘I think so, maybe, eventually.' She knew she didn't sound convincing. She wasn't certain. ‘I'm staying at Bluecolt Spa, although I haven't actually spent much time there. I've been in London mostly.' Joanna didn't ask her what she was doing in London and Clara found she couldn't confess to sitting by the bedside of her old lover, no matter how surprisingly sympathetic Joanna was being. ‘It is surreal being there without my pals or a calorie-controlled menu. I'm booked in for a week, but I'm not even sure I'll manage that. It's not much of a plan. I haven't really thought about the long term. I need time to work things out.'

‘What does Dad think? Are you speaking to one another?'

‘Yes, by telephone, all the time. Last night he said that he thinks I should move back home. He thinks we're good friends. We
are
good friends. He says that's enough, especially at our age.'

‘But you don't agree?'

‘It was enough. Or at least, for a long time I thought it was enough; after all, so few marriages are ideal. But then I received this letter.'

‘From your old lover?' If Jo found it difficult to say that word to her mother, Clara certainly found it difficult to hear. She squeezed her mobile so tightly that her knuckles turned white and she squeezed closed her eyes at the same time. After all this time, she was still trying to block out the shame and the pain, but besides that, she was still trying to hold in the tremendous, unparalleled, exquisite beauty of her affair. It was confusing. Was she making a fuss? Was it too much, too late? ‘Were you in love with him?' Joanna prompted.

Clara still didn't know how to answer this question; she never had. ‘I couldn't leave you and Lisa,' she replied. It was the most honest explanation she could give.

‘Are you hoping to strike something up with this man, after all these years?' Clara could hear the incredulity in her daughter's voice. It was a bizarre exchange of roles; Joanna clearly thought Clara was being unrealistic about her romantic expectations and that she needed some sense talked into her. Under less dramatic circumstances, Clara might have been amused. ‘Lisa said he's ill. Dying. I mean, Mum, it's an impractical, improbable plan.'

Clara thought of the old, grey man, who probably only had days, hours, left. ‘No, I'm not hoping for anything with him. It's not about him so much as the effect I had on him. In his letter he said I eased the pain of his cancer. He said that thinking of me eased his pain. Can you imagine that, Joanna?'

‘Yes.'

‘It was so wonderful to hear that I'd ever made such an impact on anyone.'

‘But you have made an impact, Mum. On me, Lisa and Mark.' Clara thought it was kind of her daughter to try to rally her.

‘It's not the same thing. You understand. Suddenly, I feel resentful that my life has flown by and I've never experienced such superb intensity since then.' Clara was confused as to how she'd been plunged into this world that seemed to be wholly about feeling; she'd always been exclusively concerned with what she ought to do, what was being done. She felt disorientated.

‘Dad loves you.'

‘Yes, I know he does. But not in that way. However, in answer to your question, I don't have any intention of starting anything with Eddie Taylor, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life lying to myself either.'

‘What did you say his name was? Did you just say Eddie Taylor?' Joanna interrupted.

‘Yes, darling.'

‘Was he married?' Joanna demanded.

‘What?'

‘Was the man that you had your stupid little affair with married?' Clara didn't understand the sudden change in her daughter's tone. Joanna had been so understanding, so sympathetic and rational, but now, in a split second, she sounded half-crazed and ferociously angry.

‘Well, yes.' It never sounded good.

‘Did he leave his wife for you?'

‘There was some silly madness, an offer …'

‘And his children?'

‘There were children.' Clara was embarrassed and reluctant to say as much, even now, especially now.

‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' Joanna, normally so mild-mannered, well-spoken and such a people-pleaser, cut her mother off in a torrent of expletives. The line went dead and Clara was left stewing in complete bewilderment.

D
ean woke up and automatically stretched his arm out towards Jo. His first instinct was to pull her into a hug. His hand floundered on an ocean of cold sheets. He rubbed his eyes and then stretched his hands above his head. He felt relaxed. A glance at the bedside clock told him that it was after eleven; clearly his body had required a marathon sleep after such an emotionally and physically demanding day, but he was irritated with himself. He sat bolt upright. He hadn't meant to sleep in; he wanted to soak up every moment of the day with Jo. He flung back the duvet and leapt out of bed, calling her name as he did so. He didn't waste time hunting around for a robe, but strode naked and confident around the apartment. She wasn't in the kitchen or the living room; there was no sign of her in the shower. He banged on the loo door.

‘Jo?'

Silence. He was not unduly worried. He assumed she'd nipped out to buy them some breakfast. Right then she'd be deciding between coconut and passion fruit yogurt or traditional strawberry flavour; she wouldn't be able to choose between chocolate or plain croissant, she'd probably bring both. That would be just like her. Caring, thoughtful. He wished she'd hurry back, though; he was hungry, but mostly for her body to be next to his again, rather than for pastries. He sniffed under his arm and pulled back from the stench of his own sweat. He really had exerted himself last night. He decided he'd have a quick shower so that he'd be fresh and appealing on her return.

He spent a long time in the shower. He hadn't planned to, but the hot streams of water hammered down on his shoulders and it felt good. He found himself singing, a tuneless rendition of the latest pop song that was getting far too much airplay at the moment. He took time to shave because he thought Jo would like it, then cleaned his teeth, flossed and even clipped his toenails. When he emerged from the bathroom and padded into the bedroom, barefoot and damp, looking for clean underwear, he glanced again at the bedside clock and noticed that it was nearly midday. It was only then he started to feel uneasy. Just how long did it take to buy a croissant and a paper? Could she have got lost? He called her phone but it immediately went through to voicemail. He didn't want to sound flustered, so he left a cheery, jokey message telling her to get her beautiful arse home. He hung up and waited another ten minutes, but the cold fingers of panic that prodded him began to tighten their grip. Had she been knocked over or mugged? Was she lying injured on a hospital trolley in some corridor somewhere, while an administrator tried to check who she was and whether she had health-care insurance? He doubted she would have. Did she know to take her passport with her when she roamed around a strange city so that in the event of an accident she could be identified? He should have told her to do that. Dean felt ferociously protective of Jo. Oh God, maybe she wasn't awaiting treatment; maybe she was already cold in a morgue. It was a bleak, hideous thought and Dean quickly shook his head to dislodge it. He tried not to be so negative and pessimistic, but the horrendous idea persistently battered his brain. He'd only had Jo in his life for a matter of days, but as he looked around the empty flat, he was already pretty sure he couldn't imagine her out of it.

He started to search the rooms. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A note? Her bag? Where had she put her bags? Time was ticking on. She had an evening flight; she'd have to leave for the airport in a couple of hours. She couldn't have gone shopping on her own and simply lost track of the time, could she? It was possible, but she'd seemed so excited about their plans to shop together; she'd seemed as keen to spend every moment with him as he was to spend every one with her. Why hadn't she woken him up? Besides, she didn't have much money with her, so it seemed improbable that she'd gone on a wild spending spree without him. Last night she'd asked if she could borrow some cash off him to buy gifts and souvenirs. She'd said she'd leave him a post-dated cheque; they'd joked about what date she should put on it. She'd suggested 25/12/2050, a sort of long-term Christmas gift, something to look forward to. She'd said she hoped that by then her cheques wouldn't bounce. Dean dashed to find his wallet; he knew it was in his jacket pocket, and his jacket was hanging over the stool in the kitchen. The moment he walked into the room, he spotted the open wallet on the breakfast bar. He wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed it before; probably because he hadn't been expecting to see it. It was empty. Next to the wallet there was a cheque for one hundred and forty dollars, the exact amount the wallet had contained. It was not post-dated to a future Christmas; rather, it had next week's date on. Jo was obviously hoping to replenish her bank account with sufficient funds to cover the loan by then. What did this mean? Had she gone shopping on her own? If so, why had she left the cheque now, rather than just giving it to him on his return? The post-dated cheque had a miserable finality about it. It felt like a full stop.

It was only after he'd carefully studied her signature, for quite a few moments, that he noticed the third object on the breakfast bar – his father's wedding ring.

Oh no. No. No. He slapped his hand against his forehead in a dramatic (and slightly painful) way. No, no, nooooo. He instantly pieced together what had happened. He could see it with awful clarity. Jo had been hunting around for his wallet, no doubt intending to go out and buy them a delicious breakfast, as he'd first surmised. As she'd rooted through his pockets she'd come across his father's wedding ring. She'd jumped to the incorrect conclusion that he was yet another rat who had slipped off his ring just before he'd slipped between the sheets. It was horrifying. Dean felt his usually taut and powerful body turn to liquid. It poured away from him and he felt like a melting candle; formless, powerless. He felt his skeleton collapse – he was sure he had no backbone without her – and his organs swoosh away in a gory mess; another abandonment would break his heart and gut him completely. For a moment, this usually resourceful man floundered. A desolate, vicious understanding of the situation caught him in a vice-like grip. She had not trusted him. She had not kept the faith. She was not all she seemed. His bloody father had ruined things again.

He called her number again and left a second message. This one was not cheerful or playful; he simply asked her to call him.